Healing
by ThirstySatyr
Summary: Pre-Deathwish. Updated Ch6. Cal wakes up in pain, and while trying to figure out where the injuries came from, realizes he must heal more than just physical wounds. Rated M for language and squik content.
1. Nightmare

Title: Healing

Author: ThirstySatyr

Rating: M, for language, mild sexuality, and squick content

Chapter 1/6: Nightmare _or _Now, the First Trip

Standard Disclaimer: Not mine. Rob Thurman's.

Nightmare _or _Now, the First Trip

I was sore from the top of my head, covered as it was with inky black, ruler straight hair – doing its usual inky, ruler-y thing – to the bottoms of my peculiarly bare feet. Ache was too moderate a word for how it felt. Ground, as in the past tense of grind… yeah, that was a bit more accurate. But even that lacked certain finesse, an intangible quality of totality. Fuck it; 'sore' worked.

I wondered hazily if the reason for my bare feet might have had something to do with the whole sore thing. The distant sensation of my skin told me I was nude, cocooned securely in clean cotton sheets that smelled vaguely like trees. As comforting as the smell of young leaves could be, something was wrong in the very nature of my being; even naked as the day I was born, I should at least have been wearing socks; three day old socks, ripe, thinking for themselves and threatening to take over Guatemala. I curled my feet tighter under the blankets, with abused legs protesting sharply. As I did, my half conscious mind searched offhandedly for a reason why such a vital part of me, _my socks for gods' sake_, would be missing.

Maybe I'd stepped in a puddle, and then been mauled by a bear. Maybe my socks had caught on some carpet, and I'd fallen down a couple dozen flights of stairs. Maybe my endlessly annoying brother had stolen my socks, filled them with the sharpest cotton balls money could buy, and...

When the frigid, jagged light filled my still sleep-tangled mind, it blotted out all other thought. My body stiffened of its own volition, half conscious mental signals telling my muscles to run. It was a sickly gray-yellow, that light, like the glow off a swollen corpse. The light spoke of a place where illumination was just something to see by, and never chased the shadows away.

It was the light of my own personal hell; Tumulus.

And I had been there. _Recently_, my mind whispered with sleep edged memories. Oh yes, quite recently. Really, depending on how long I'd been sleep... I'd only just got back.

I fought to slip back into full unconsciousness, struggling against memory for blessed oblivion. But the memories would not be beaten back; no, they came, and they brought friends.

The first time I'd been in Tumulus – and why, why must there now be a second to make that one a first – I'd been a child. Fourteen, terrified, and breakable. The first time I'd been to Tumulus, I had been stolen there kicking and screaming. Gods help me, but, this time I'd gone willingly.

Maybe that was too strong of a word. Willingly; it implied a choice, which I had utterly lacked. It had been go, and succeed, or have my entire world destroyed. Not much of a choice. But I had gone, ripping the walls between worlds myself, and stepping through under my own power.

The first time I had been in that life-devoid nightmare, I had spent two years having my father's demonic family torturing me, trying to strip the will from my mind and reform me into a tool. I was to be their apocalyptic instrument, their implement of the unmaking of the world. Two years of suffering at the hands of the Auphe had seen me age from a childish fourteen to a lunatic sixteen. And in the real world where my brother, the anchor of all freaking existence, had waited for me, only two long days had passed. When I had emerged from my very first gate, screaming mad, cringing from the shocked touch of the only family that mattered, the wounds had been internal – mental wounds, two years deep.

But that was then, and this was now; lucky me, this time the wounds were a lot more physical. I remembered the cave wall that had left the whole left side of my body tenderized, the jagged edges of rocks that had bitten into the muscles of my back... the claws that had raked up my inner thigh and just nicked my scrotum. That one had sucked. Especially considering that, had my "cousin" succeeded in the intended blow, I would have run the rest of the race in the gelding category.

In a distant, quiet part of my mind, I knew I was still asleep, my body being held unconscious so that I might heal. Even in sleep, though, I remembered the shock and the pain. Defensively I curled up even tighter, rolling closer to the warm, familiar scent on the bed next me.

Oh yeah, I remembered this part too.

When I'd come back after that first trip to hell, I hadn't remembered… at least, not in the active, conscious part of my mind. No, I'd done a beautiful job of suppressing my two years in hell. But there'd been a part of me that had remembered, even if only enough to soak into my reptilian hind-brain and colour my instincts. I'd come back trembling, cringing from a world I couldn't recognize as real. My brother had dressed me, moving my shaking limbs into the sleeves and legs of second hand clothing. My brother's touch had brought the world into a cleaner focus, if only minutely. I had reveled in the heat of him, feeling his touch make things better, forcing the world to be just a little more real. Then, for reasons suppressed to spare my mind, I had whimpered, guilt filled his eyes, and he pulled back.

But his retreat just made it worse. I was sixteen and scarred, and when he would pull his hand away from my hair, or my neck, or my shoulder, it was like being abandoned even though I was sitting in the car next to him. Even though I knew he was doing everything he could to take care of me. Feeling his touch slip away was like being thrown back into the void at the back of my mind, sending the world skidding out of focus.

The whimpers had gotten worse, and my poor brother didn't know what to do; he couldn't pull farther from me, and all he wanted to do was crush me close, keep me safe. I was curled so tight into myself, my lungs clenched against the screams, I couldn't tell him what I needed. I couldn't voice that I needed his hand on my arm, I needed the smell of his skin on mine, I needed his heat to anchor me to this tenuous world. All he heard were the whimpers and the growls, and he thought he was hurting me.

In the here and now I whimpered again, pleading for that touch of safety to return; I wasn't sixteen anymore, but I still needed the reassurance. I felt the bed shift under me, and a solid weight settle against me. My head was tucked under a familiar chin, with warm breath shifting through my hair, and strong arms firmly wrapped around me, pinning me to this world. Better.

Still not perfect though.

I shifted even closer to the warmth holding me, trying to burrow into the skin that smelled like sun, trying to solidify this anchor. I pushed and fought against my cocoon of sheets until I was able to free an arm, snaking it securely around a narrow torso. Better.

Still not perfect, though.

Just like last time.

All those years ago, my brother had driven for days before he felt we'd put enough distance between ourselves and the burnt carcass of our past life. We stopped at a public bathhouse masquerading as a motel; it had walls, and most of a roof. It had been enough.

I hadn't moved from my brother's side as he got out of the car and paid for 24 hours in a room with a bed and a bathtub. I had hovered with about three inches between us, refusing to be any farther. When he'd been too far from me, my vision would begin to narrow, a tunnel of darkness slowly eating away at the world. At the end of that tunnel would always be my brother, the best guiding light someone could have; but I'd felt the black encroaching, threatening even him. It was unbearable; I needed to be where his scent was the strongest, I needed the one real truth in my world to stay in sight.

The days passed like that; me, shaking, almost hollow, barely passing for conscious, and staying as close as I could while never quite touching. After all, how could I force my shinning perfection of a brother to sully himself with me? I was a monster after all. Horrid. Freakish. Unreal. I even got an all expenses paid trip to hell for doing such a good job. How could I ask my so human brother to let that leech off of his warmth, touch his skin like it was something sacred, curl against him while trying not to scream? How? I couldn't; so I hovered, never quite touching, but close enough to smell the warmth falling from his skin.

When I slept it was a different story. When I slept, I was pressed so close to him I could barely breathe. But it didn't matter, because what breath I had was full of his scent; the blunt smell of male, the mellow-sweet warmth of sunlight, and coppery tang of healing wounds. It was a smell I would grow to instantly recognize as my brother. It was home, it was family, and right then it was the only part of the world that was real. When I would wake, not even a heartbeat between unconsciousness and trembling awareness, I would struggle away from him. If I pulled away fast enough, I wouldn't stain him with what I was. If I pulled away quick enough, I wouldn't leave any monster behind on my perfect brother.

For three days and nights it had gone like that; my hovering distance while awake, my desperate clinging while asleep. Then one bright and sunny three am, in yet another anonymous truck stop motel, my brother didn't let me run away. For the first time that would set the pattern for the rest of our existence, he had woken just before me instead of just after. He'd felt the shaking that signified my impending awareness, and had locked his arms firmly in place.

When I broke the surface of consciousness, his scent still strong in my lungs, I had tried to pull away. Always with regret, but doing it because I _had_ to spare him. My brother wasn't a monster, he didn't deserve a monster making him the center of its world. The arms locked across my back let me know he thought different.

At first I fought against him, my still unfamiliar body pushing with an alien strength, but no control. I had never been a fighter before, had avoided it even; so I knew I couldn't win against him. I mean, he had pulled me back to this world just by _being_; did I really think I could stop his pulling me into a hug?

No, I couldn't fight him with my arms and shaking strength. But I could fight him with the truth.

"No, Niko. Stop. Let me go..." my voice barely registered as my own. I pleaded with the unfamiliar sound, using it as an example of how wrong I was, how monstrous. Don't you see, brother, I'm not what you think I am.

The look that flashed across his face was hurt, even scared. But I couldn't take it back; wouldn't.

"Cal," his voice stumbled out, "I would never hurt you... please..." he kept this arms locked around my shoulders, trying to catch my eyes with his.

Hurt me? Of course not. You aren't making sense, big brother.

"Please Niko," I tried again, the harsh and unfamiliar voice almost catching in my throat. "Don't touch me..." Please brother, I'm dirty. I'm not human. Don't let it corrupt you. Don't let me pollute you.

He had let me go then. I had almost slid off the edge of the narrow bed, his release was so complete. Finally, he understood. The look in his eyes was haunted, but sometimes the truth did that to you. As he pulled his hands closer to his body, I could just notice the cringing, could just smell the change in his scent.

He was getting it, but I needed to make sure; I needed him to _understand._

"Please, Niko. No. Don't. Don't touch me." I felt his flinch through the worn spring of the bed, but I had to keep going; no matter how the truth hurt, I had to make him understand. "Don't touch me. I'm... I'm a monster, you're not. You're good, you're right; I'm not. Don't touch me, don't hold me. Don't. Just... let me go. Let me rot. Not human, not worth it, not real. If you touch me, you'll be just as wrong as I am..." I was screaming by the end of it, my new voice tearing its way out of me. I was also sobbing. Big, fat, fourteen-year-old human tears running down my sixteen-year-old monster face.

I was shaking so violently that I didn't feel him shift on the bed, didn't feel his tense crouch, but definitely felt him hit me in a bull-dog tackle. I fought back – it was one of my new monster instincts – even though I didn't want to win. As much as I wanted my brother safe from me, I didn't want to be safe from him; after all, he was the only real thing left.

The struggle was brief, and when it finished we were on the floor, one of my gangly legs lost under the bed, one of my snow-pale hands clawed in my brother's hair, and my brother in complete control. The hand I had managed to win any points with, keeping my brother's head at an awkward angle, was quickly going numb. My other wrist was pinned quite effectively by a knee, while his other foot held my free leg at an angle far more awkward then I had his head. His hands were practically excessive as they pinned my newly long hair to the floor.

"Now you listen to me, little brother. You. Are. Not. A monster! To imply that you are worth anything less than all of my brotherly _affection_ is an insult I am not willing to take." He made sure to emphasize the word 'affection' by knocking my head lightly against the floor.

And despite it all, I don't think I had a new bruise on me; he had said he would never hurt me.

But he had it all wrong; this wasn't about him hurting me, this was about me ruining him. This was me thrashing his life even more than I had before. More than just money to pay off our mother, more than just giving up part of a scholarship so I could live with him. Now it was me, and just me. _I_ was too much to ask of him. I was a burden, a cross, a creeping set of teeth and claws just waiting for the right moment to stab him in the back... the better to rip your heart out with, my dear.

I couldn't let him do it.

"No, Niko. I'm not your brother. I'm not… I'm not human," I pulled against his hands as I pleaded, the tugging at my hair barely registering. It didn't matter. The only thing that mattered was saving him.

"I'm not real." Just like the world, just like everything but you. "I'm a monster. I've always been a monster. Now its just worse. Look at me; look at what I've done. God, Sophia…" our poor, heartless, selfishly human mother... just dust on the wind.

I had kept going, I know that. What I said is anyone's guess. My brother probably remembers. It had to have been pretty bad though, very ugly, because he shut me up the most effective way he could.

He kissed me. There was no romance in the kiss, just heat, just pursed lips against pursed lips. It was like everything else my brother was to me; strong, supportive, pushing me until I understood that he would never let me fall. The heat of him began to fill me up, pushing past the layers of blank nightmares, reaching a part of me that wanted to remember who I was. It went through me like an electric shock; suddenly the world was real again.

I could feel it, the surety. It was like finally waking up.

Then it was gone, because he was gone. He pulled back from me, his face from my face, his hands from my hair, his whole body retreating. Even his eyes looked like running away. He looked appalled, staring at me with disbelief and not just a little bit of fear. And just as it had been better a heartbeat before, it because a thousand times worse. A million times worse. Infinitely worse.

I was going down. Nothing was real now, not me, not this world, not even my brother; it was all vacant. Just the calm before the nightmare. Nothing existed except the screaming blackness in the back of my mind. The only true thing was the void of my memories and the pain hinted at in the emptiness. Of course that was the only reality, the only thing that was genuine; I was a monster, it was all I deserved. I didn't have the right to a brother that cared for me; the haunted look in his eyes was merely proof of my delusion. What was I thinking; that I mattered? That I existed? Hardly.

I could feel the hollowness sucking me down, whether to submerge me back into the memories, or create newer, crueler ones; it didn't matter. I was going down. A coarse cold began replacing my skin, eating away the warmth I'd managed to steal from my short-lived belief in the world. Everything was fading, being swallowed up by the devouring darkness. It was all distant and out of reach, even the gray of my brother's eyes.

I was going down.

"I'm not real," said a voice that still wasn't mine.

I wasn't real.

I was gone.


	2. Sleeping in Circles

Title: Healing

Author: ThirstySatyr

Rating: M, for language, mild sexuality, and squick content

Chapter 2/6: Sleeping in Circles

Standard Disclaimer: Not mine. Rob Thurman's.

Sleeping in Circles

Coiled in sleep, I whimpered against the nightmare-memory. My injuries kept me under, but I fought with what strength I had; I didn't want to be there again. It was eight years ago, now, and I still remembered with perfect clarity the one moment of doubt I'd ever had in my brother; it had burned. Worse, it had nearly killed me.

Beyond my consciousness I felt strong arms pull me even closer, careful of the bandages that patterned across my back. A voice whispered nonsense to me, rumbling a warm bass into my chest, comforting with familiarity. Years of experience let me recognized that I was being kept safe, though never so thoroughly; I could barely move, let alone fight to defend myself. The hands now rubbing slow circles on my back let me know I wouldn't have to.

As pathetic as I felt, it was hard to accept the care-taking. I took it with my usual lack of grace, 'cause frankly, I would have lost a fight with a hangnail. Every injury was its own world of awareness; the torn ligaments in my left ankle had an atmosphere of stiff bruising, and an orbiting cloud of stabbing bone fragments. My back felt a bit like a gruesome constellation, each puncture wound a point in a brutal picture. And then there was my groin; yeah, that was a universe all in itself. My cousin, livid magma eyes reflecting nothing but hate, had been trying to correct one of our mutual failures; as the term went, I had no hybrid vigor. At least that's what they had believed, and I desperately hoped for. Rectifying the situation apparently involved my bloody castration.

Thankfully, a swing and a miss. My nuts in particular were grateful.

Yet, despite feeling like I'd been caught under an elephant mid-tantrum, I felt myself shifting instinctively, disregarding the ache. Just like last time, all those years ago, pushing past pain to find the warmth. It was a struggle though, because unlike last time, I was pushing past a wall of morphine. I could smell it now, sour and chokingly sweet in my blood. I didn't like it; the drug confused my nose, impairing my keener-than-human sense of smell. Even the warm scent holding me smelled strongly of sun and earth, and wilder than it had ever before. But it didn't matter, not when I needed to feel real again.

Tumulus did that to me; made me feel distant. That place was so sinister, so agonizing, it made any world outside of it seem just a distant fantasy. Nothing could be genuine when compared to the choking smell of corpses, the ripping caress of talons and teeth. It was hell, and hell was too real for anything else to be more than feeble delusion.

I needed to drive those thoughts away, now; so I pushed past the pain and the drugs, turning toward the comforting scent holding me. The heat sinking into my skin was like a beacon, a small sun leading me out of nightmare and back to the real world. I tilted my head up, searching by braille for skin, trying to ignore the pervasive twinge of bruises.

At least this time there was a bed under my half-dead body, compliant around the sharp curve of my hip and shoulder. Last time there had been a questionable floor unyielding against my half-living self. The half living had been all my own doing, though.

It's a good thing my brother was fast, even back then. He's learned a bit in the years since, but even then, with a crazed brother newly earth-bound, he was quick on the pick up. He must have seen the distance growing in my eyes after the aborted kiss, after he'd pulled away. Or maybe he'd felt the temperature of my skin swiftly die. Whatever the signal, he had been on me in a second, his lips crashing back into mine.

"No!" he had yelled against my mouth. It was his turn to use that word, shoving it at me like it might stop my retreat. Looking back, I know what he was protesting. It hadn't registered then, hadn't gotten past the wall of gray steadily consuming my mind. But he'd seen it; my heart had started slowing, had become languid and sluggish. And yeah, the dawdling blood may have been the technical reason for my sudden drop in temperature, by my brother understood the real cause.

I was dying. Because I didn't want to live.

And why not? My brother was disturbed because he had to touch me, because he was forced to have a _thing_ as a brother. Why not ease his nightmare, if I couldn't end my own? It wouldn't be a true loss anyway; I wasn't real, after all.

But he fought me, pressing his lips to mine, dragging at my body with his hands. He'd rocked back on his heels, pulling my unresponsive form against him. The heat of his skin had stung against my own, burning away the death I was letting take over.

"No, Cal! Come back!" He had screamed at me while I faded. Seams protested as he tore the shirt from me, trying to reach me, gathering my cold against him.

"Cal! Don't do this; don't fucking leave me!"

Huh.

He swore.

My brother didn't swear.

I was such a shitty influence on him.

Don't you understand that I'm doing you a favor? Don't you see, big brother, I'm setting you free? If I haunt you, you'll be trapped in this nightmare with me. I'm the one that's not real. If I stay, I'll just drag you down with me. I'm letting you go. Don't you see?

But I couldn't find the voice to share my revelation; it had become too much effort just to breathe.

Then I was airborne. The worn bed protested weakly as I landed, my measly hundred and fifteen pounds just another blow in a long life of abuse. It was a very minor miracle the springs held as my brother landed beside me. It was a slightly larger one that I was holding together.

Despite the frigid distance growing between me and anything that might have resembled life, I hadn't yet gone the final step. I was holding on by the friction of my human fingertips.

Then my brother's fingers added to the grip, this time bruising my arms as he lay down and pulled me to him. My skin met his with a shock; he'd gotten rid of his shirt in the half second between floor and bed. Even through the faded vestige of my sight, the death-white of my chest was jarring against his natural, dusky olive. The contrast didn't stop him from pressing his lips to my throat, exhaling hotly against my lagging pulse.

"Please, little brother." Every word was scorching on my skin. "Don't leave me, Cal. Come back. Don't leave me again…"

He lipped the words against the skin of my shoulders, trying to fill the hollow places in me with his will. I felt like a bell being rung, every place our skin met resonating through the emptiness in me, making me real again. My arms wound around his back, soaking up his heat like it might just save my life.

"Stay with me, Cal. Don't disappear again…" my brother's voice pushed against me, bass and soothing. I found the curve of his neck and buried my face there, nodding thoughtlessly against his thick hair.

I'm here, brother. I'm here. Just don't let me go.

His hands were anything but gentle as they burned across my back, searching for something to hold. I had horribly few handholds for him to find, just bones and edges. I was so thin then, what little flesh I had pulled taunt over five feet and ten inches of gangly body, it was surprising I didn't tear. As it was, I bruised with the best of them.

Every time my brother's hands closed, fingers digging in to keep me _here_, I knew blood rushed to mark his passing. I relished each darkening spot; they were better than the marks inside my head. They were proof that this was real, not just a dream I'd created in the vacant two years. This wasn't Santa Clause, this wasn't the Easter Bunny, this wasn't Grendel eyes and needle teeth. This was my brother, his fingers pressing against my skin, and not piercing into my flesh. This was bruises, not bleeding wounds.

His hands moved farther down my back, curling around the razorblade edge of my hips. His fingers dug in again – _solid, here, real_ – and we were suddenly fused. Yin and yang didn't cover it; the shock that went through me as our bodies met was not of opposites. My hips slid, the arches fitting easily into the space between his, the heat and hardness at the center of us corresponding. This was no meeting of reversed frequencies, clashing into an unexpected harmony. No; in that moment we were the same.

One, and the same.

When his hand slid between us, pushing the loose fitting sweats down and out of the way, my breath had stopped. Then I found his lips with mine, and pressed. My hand mirrored his, shifting baggy clothing to let more of our skin meet. He was scalding against my shocked hand, but fit easily into the curve of my fingers.

We both moved with a slow, desperate purpose; our paces matched effortlessly, our eyes clinging as surely as our bodies. Gray eyes held gray eyes, and we remade the world around us. Nothing could touch us, nothing could hurt us, nothing could separate us. We were one.

His climax surprised us both, arching his body, bringing his forehead to press against mine. He shook with it, his eyes sliding out of focus. Despite the flush and tremble, he didn't stop touching me. Oh no, he was taking care of me. He was making sure I was here, solidly here, irrevocably real. My brother kept our eyes locked, holding me with everything he had.

Eventually I came. It was a warm tingle, more than anything else. The bell that I'd become, ringing that I was still alive. If I had been in my right mind, I probably would have finished sooner, what with being a newly minted sixteen. Though, if I had been in my right mind, this never…

No, none of that.

The world was real, and, miraculously, so was I. My brother had brought me home, filled me with a life I had been ready to let go. My brother was real, and fought to keep me real too. I had to hold on to that; it was what mattered, more than anything else. It was a knowledge that would slowly save me.

We fell asleep like that, like two halves of a circle. Knees curled up, the length of our shins pressing, our foreheads rocked together. One of his hands was tucked behind my knees, and one of mine was wrapped around his waist. My other hand was pressed above his heart, just like his to mine.

We fell asleep like that; two halves of a circle.


	3. Mornings

Title: Healing

Author: ThirstySatyr

Rating: M, for language, mild sexuality, and squick content

Chapter 3/6: Mornings

Standard Disclaimer: Not mine. Rob Thurman's.

Mornings

Too bad we couldn't have slept forever.

All those years ago we woke, and our circle shattered. If the look in my brother's eyes had been guilty after he kissed me, the morning after found it anguished. When I finally woke, my senses still feeding me information in unfamiliar ways, all I saw was regret. And, why not? My fear that the monster in me would reach out and contaminate my brother had come true. The look in his eyes was proof.

He had climbed off the bed with careful motions, trying not to jostle me. In spite of his effort, the ancient springs still quaked in nauseating waves.

_Too late brother, I'm turbulent._

The shirt he pulled over his head was the one he'd torn off of me yesterday. He must not have noticed. I didn't follow him when he padded quietly to the bathroom, like I had just the day before. I lay motionless on the bed, listening to the shower hiss and sputter on. He came out once, either still fully clothed or fully clothed again, to retrieve a bar of soap from the duffel. When he disappeared back into the bathroom, the sound of the water changing slightly, letting me know he'd finally gotten in, I still didn't move. He deserved to shower in peace. He deserved to get clean.

_Too late brother, I'm virulent._

Because of me, because of the monster I was, my brother had done something he regretted. Fuck that; he'd done something _more_ he regretted. I felt, surely, by that point he regretted those two days waiting beside a smoldering trailer and the ozone smell of an Auphe gate. He must have; I know I did.

Somehow we made it through the rest of that day, gathering our few things together, loading up the car, and getting back on the road. We didn't speak; he probably didn't know what to say. And me, well, I'd swallowed my unfamiliar voice whole. If I could stay quiet enough, maybe I would just disappear and my brother would be free of what I'd made him do. Maybe, if I were quiet enough, he'd be free of me.

But, though I didn't speak, I did shake. I tremored, even. A continuous low level seizer traveled the length of me. My brother must have thought I was cold, because when we lie down to sleep that night, he wrapped me firmly in a blanket we carried with us, before pulling me into a hug. By the time I managed to pass out I hurt from the constant trembling.

The next day, when I woke, my brother was already conscious, staring at the water stains on the ceiling. There was at least a foot of bed between us, the only contact was the heat of his hand curled around the back of my neck. But even that had the blanket guarding his skin from mine. I must have made a sound, because he turned to me with a weak smile.

"Morning, little brother."

What a brave man, still acknowledging me as family.

I think I grunted in return. My voice was still too foreign, making me feel clumsy when I tried to use it.. He rolled off the bed and walked straight to the bathroom. He had to scrub away the new layer of me that had collected in the night. When I heard the sound of the water change I fought my way free of the blanket, tossing it with some effort toward our duffel. I undressed from the sleepwear mechanically, trying not to see the bruises that patterned down my arms like bread crumbs. There was no place to return to; the bread crumbs were useless. The marks on my hips were especially vibrant, a rich wine-toned purple. As much as I hadn't wanted to, I looked. I had cherished those bruises while they happened, wanting to believe they'd been made because he'd wanted me here. I had hoped that his fingers trusted in my humanity; why else would they have pressed so close?

When I heard the shower shut off, I covered the marks quickly with the first underwear and jeans I could grab. I was facing away, just pulling a long sleeved shirt over my head with awkward limbs when the bathroom door clicked open. I got the worn fabric down over my back, covering as much of my icy pale skin as I could, before I heard his breath restart.

My brother's eyes were huge when I finally worked up the spine to look at him. His usually warm gray eyes were black as pitch. Maybe it was something else. Maybe, they were black as regret.

My back... I hadn't had a chance to look, as I had avoided mirrors since my unceremonious return. I didn't want to see how different I was; in that moment though, I wished I'd looked. I wished I'd seen what was capable of putting such darkness into my brother's eyes.

He was dressed, save for a shirt, his pale olive skin still flushed from the shower. He'd taken clothes into the bathroom with him, but in his haste had again picked up the shirt that'd been torn off of me two nights before. The shirt, a pale blue thing with a faded cartoon on the front, hung from his hand like something dirty.

That's when the shaking restarted. I turned away from him and looked for something, anything, to do. The blanket. The fucking blanket that hadn't done a damn thing to protect him from me in the night; it needed to be put away. My hands didn't want to work as I pulled the corners together. My nails kept catching on the fabric, pulling small expletives from my breath.

"No, no, no, no...." The chant was made by a quiet voice, which was slowly growing familiar.

I don't know how many times I tried to get the damned blanket folded small enough to fit back into the duffel, but eventually I got it in. In the end, it was the zipper that defeated me. I couldn't grip the tab through the quaking. I was cursing with every curse word our mother's clients had ever let slip, before my brother pulled the bag from my hands.

"Cal," his voice broke gently into my quavering litany. "Cal, please. Let me do it."

I gave the bag up without a protest. I wasn't about to fight him again; I could barely get my knees to work as I stumbled away.

"Caliban," I'd rasped. Caliban, brother. Get it right. The proof had become insurmountable.

Eventually my brother steered me back out to the car, stuffed our things into the truck, checked out, and got us back on the road. We'd passed into a different state the day before, after six days of driving, but the distance still hadn't felt like enough.

Three times we slowed down enough to pass through Drive-thrus without taking hands with us, my brother sliding burgers across the seat at me with little enthusiasm. Restaurants didn't seem safe yet, full of strangers and breakable windows. Not that we could have stopped, even had we wanted; standing, let along walking, was beyond me. The shaking had escalated, doubling and tripling over the course of the day, until nightfall found my teeth chattering and my vision blurring.

When the car finally stopped moving, my eyes had been locked tight against the agitated world. I heard the driver's door click open, and slam shut without looking up. I sat alone in the car for a minute, doing my best impression of someone still breathing. When he returned, my brother practically carried me to that night's motel oasis. The struggle I put up was more for show than to actually convince him to let me walk alone. The ground seemed a little too eager to meet my face.

With virtually no help from me, my brother managed to sit me on the edge of bed, wrapping the fucking blanket like a cocoon around me. The fabric felt so tight against my shaking, I thought I would vibrate apart. But as I shook, I felt the tightness giving, its purchase losing against my frenetic surface.

My brother made two trips back out to the car, retrieving our duffel and cleaning out the day's garbage. And only once everything was set to his liking - the bar of soap that counted as our toiletries ready in the bathroom, the phone pulled free of the wall, and our clothes folded on a chair ready for the next day – did my brother turn to look at me. I could feel the tension coming from him, like pressure, as he walked carefully across the room. He knelt at the foot of the bed in front of me, carefully not touching my vibrating edges, and spoke with a deceptively casual smile.

"Time to bathe, little brother."

Bathing; what a surprisingly human thing it is. The act of exposing yourself, stripping away all the careful layers, and letting an element as ephemeral as water try to get you clean. How purely, fundamentally human.

The first motel of our journey, after two days of constant driving, my brother had washed me like a baby. Or maybe, like a puppy. I hadn't been a happy, wiggling bundle of joy, but he'd held onto me none the less. His hand never left the back of my neck as I was sat in water so scaldingly hot it'd had me sweating. Our newly acquired bar of soap had run through my hair and down over my arms. The smell of oatmeal had been thick in the humid air.

The second motel had had a plastic sliding door on the shower, a small point of luxury in what otherwise had been pig-sty chic. I'd stood unmoving under the searing hot water, my brother watching me from his seat on the sink. He'd been there the instant I'd twisted the water off, a towel and sweats at the ready.

By the third motel, I'd relearned the basics of bathing myself. I'd actually begun enjoying the oatmeal grit of our companion soap, feeling it scrape the top layer of my skin away. My brother had kept an eye on me through the translucent shower curtain, sitting solidly on the sink, a towel and sleepwear folded in his lap. The shirt had been pale blue, with a faded cartoon on the front.

The night after I had huddled, shaking, in the bottom of the tub, the water so hot I'd actually hurt myself. My brother had left sweats and a shirt on the sink.

Death and bathtubs; the great equalizers, making humans of us all.

I looked at my brother, the eight days since I'd disappeared and six since I'd come back hanging on him like weights. Wanting to lift some of that burden, I found my voice sliding out of me with remarkably little effort. The deeper tones were starting to fit with more ease around my tongue.

"Why? You shower in the morning." Snark. I had snark. It was weak and pathetic, but it was definitely there. It was also almost enough to cover the trembling edge of my words.

Despite the quaver, my brother took it as a good sign; he even went so far as to lightly grab my shoulder. The blanket had slipped; the only thing between us was the thin, moth-bitten cotton of my newest thrift store shirt.

"Because, little brother," he paused a moment, his smile thawing into something a bit more genuine. "I managed not to get disgustingly filthy over the course of a day."

It had been said with such ease, such teasing familiarity, as if to the boy I'd been just two weeks ago. He'd meant nothing by it; not really. Wasn't his fault it was the truth.

Disgusting.

Filthy.

Guess he was finally catching on.


	4. Focus

Title: Healing

Author: ThirstySatyr

Rating: M, for language, mild sexuality, and squick content

Chapter 4/6: Focus _or _Losing It and Gaining It

Standard Disclaimer: Not mine. Rob Thurman's.

Note: The story of _Deathwish _has totally negated the driving force of this story. As a result, it's quite likely the second half of this story (_Healing_ was first, _Surprise_ was to be second) will not be uploaded. Please forgive the abrupt ending that occurs as a result.

Focus _or _Losing It and Gaining It

It took all the will I had to force my eyes open, peeling back the stone that had along the way replaced my eyelids. Beyond the edge of the plush, expensive smelling bed, and lost in the blur of my vision, a large picture window looked high over a hazy-bright New York skyline. I tried to focus on the image, the tops of skyscrapers swaying with my effort. If I could just make my eyes focus I could escape the forced recounting of my tortured past. If I could just finish waking up I could flee the twisting hallways and constricting walls filling up my head. If I could just...

Despite my ever-loving, torrid affair with sleep, I was trying my damnedest to throw it off. My breath was catching, adding heat to my already boiling panic. I couldn't breathe, couldn't surface. I couldn't get out, was drowning in one of the worst time spans of my entire existence. Caught, forced to stare at the empty despair in my brother's eyes that was only ever there because of me. Like tar on my skin, the memories and the morphine were keeping me under.

It had only been five years ago that I'd had the wretched occasion to see my brother's eyes go bleak again. I'd been possessed; depressing enough, yeah. Then, with a smile on my face, I tried to kill him; rancid icing on the putrid cake. Darkling, a vicious parasite, had taken me over on orders of my father's kind, mixing its mind with my own, changing us both into something different. Too bad for me - and the whole fucking world, really - that something different had been all on board with the Auphe plan to destroy the human race.

The creature that I'd become, mixed in the mire of Darkling, had tormented my brother with how he had failed, yet _again_, to keep me safe. How the Me-Darkling hybrid had managed _not_ to touch on the most damning memories I had was a miracle. Perhaps it had been another sign that I had been in there, fighting to take control. Though I hadn't thought it when I was Darkling, and Darkling was me, apparently we hadn't been one monster united for the Auphe cause. No, there were some thoughts and memories that had kept themselves hidden, away from evil intentions.

I didn't want to think about what the Me-Darkling would have done with those two weeks after I'd come back from Tumulus. Twisting the memories, they would have become perfect weapons. The devastation that we could have made with just a single sentence...

_Hey Promise, Robin; did you know that me and my so-stalwart brother, Niko, had a naked tumble when I was fourteen… well, kind of sixteen. No? Well, we learn something new every day, don't we..._

By some miracle those two weeks never came up, never became thoughts, and never became actions. No, Me-Darkling managed to never experienced those memories. If only I could wake myself from them now.

Trying as I was to break the surface of consciousness, I realized it was just the morphine holding me down; the sticky, rancid honey smell tugged at my senses and kept me just under. My vision was nauseatingly murky, my sense of smell still registering everything sharper and brighter then usual. The only sense I trusted was touch; there was honesty in the pain radiating from the other side of the drugs. Chipped bones and lacerations, but damned it they weren't honest. More than that, though, the warmth of the skin under my fingertips felt familiar and true.

My hands were just finishing their journey up the muscular spine, finding short hair curly with sweat and sleep, when the morphine-memories pulled me back under.

Well, fuck.


	5. Homecoming

Title: Healing

Author: ThirstySatyr

Rating: M, for language, mild sexuality, and squick content

Chapter: 5/6 Homecoming _or _Words We Choke On

Standard Disclaimer: Not mine. Rob Thurman's.

Note: The story of _Deathwish _has totally negated the driving force of this story. As a result, it's quite likely the second half of this story (_Healing_ was first, _Surprise_ was to be second) will not be uploaded. Please forgive the abrupt ending that occurs as a result.

Homecoming _or _Words We Choke On

I was staring at my brother from the center of the small motel bed when the memory restarted. The words "disgustingly filthy" were ringing through my head like static. My shaking was so violent the whole bed ground against the wall and the springs whined. The damned, fucking blanket was abandoned at the foot of the bed, where I'd been sitting just a heartbeat before. And my brother, still kneeling on the floor, looked stunned.

"Cal…"

"Don't! Don't touch me!" I yelled at him, my hand covering my shoulder, the skin there still warm where he'd touched me. I wanted to hold onto that heat, treasure it, because I wasn't going to let him do it again. Don't look, don't crave his strength, don't listen, and_ don't_ stop telling him the truth… even if it drives him away. Curled in on myself, eyes squeezed shut against my brother's guilt; I tried to make myself small enough to disappear. But I had to look up; as much as I fought it, I could never look away from him for long.

It was a scary thing, watching as something in his eyes crumbled. Disturbingly familiar, too, even then. My eyes probably looked a bit like that; pupils like bruises, with a wash of despair underneath.

A long minute passed before my brother moved, shifting cautiously onto the bed. Fucking optimist, moving toward me like I wasn't a plague waiting to eat him alive. His motions were extremely wary, though, each hand and knee placed with guarded care.

"No, Niko. No. Don't…" my words stammered, catching on my shivering jaw.

He stopped close to me, not quite touching. He raised a hand as if to grab me, but held it just over mine where I still clutched at the warm spot on my shoulder. He looked at his hand then, really looked at it, and whatever he saw there crushed what was left of hope in his eyes. If looks could kill his hand would have fallen off at the wrist, nothing but dust and smoke.

I had done that to him. Me. My monster, soaking from my skin to his, made him dirty.

"I'm so sorry, Cal. I am so sorry." My brother's voice was brittle. "I didn't mean to…"

My eyes went wide. _What_? You idiot; you fucking idiot.

"No!" I yelled at him, because my only other volume was whimper, and that wasn't going to cut it.

"Shut up! Shut up!" I was screaming again. And it was like the seal, the o-ring of will I'd shoved down my throat, suddenly shattered.

"Shut up, Niko. God, I'm sorry. Shut up! Monster, monster, MONSTER!" My voice rose steadily, disjointed and shrill. "I'm a… I'm a monster. I made you touch me and now you're dirty. If I weren't… if I weren't so f-f-fucked you wouldn't have had to. Disgusting, filthy, wrong. Monster! You're wrong when you touch me. I make you wrong. Can't clean me off 'cause I stick. Better away. Better gone. Monsters. Gone with the monsters…"

I'd huddled there on the bed, blind to anything but my fear, the words pouring out of me like bile. I clawed at the shirt I wore, buried my face against my arms, and deep in the darkest part of me, I _pulled_. Looking back now, I can see just how wrong I'd been. Not for being part Auphe; nah, that was someone else's fault entirely. Money grubbing mom and dear old dad, that's where my genetic responsibility dwelt. No, my impending failure would have come at the other end of that pull. I was trying for a gate, though I didn't know it; I'd been trying to take myself away.

I probably would have succeeded too, if not for my brother. Always saving me. Brave man.

He shocked me from my impending suicide with another tackle, pulling my hands away from the fresh gouges in my ribs. The sharp tang of my blood filled the room, but I hadn't cared. Nothing mattered, and even pain was distant. My brother had stopped the pull, but he hadn't stopped the words.

"Niko, please. I'm wrong. I don't belong here. If I weren't… I'm a monster. I make you wrong. If I weren't… you wouldn't… Hate me. Please! Hate me! Be better gone, gone with the monsters. A monster. I belong with the monsters."

My brother let go my wrists, and moving his hands to my back, crushed me as close as he could. "No, Cal. You belong here. Right here, Cal. I got you. I found you. You belong here, with me…" His voice was all golden and warm. Those few, sparse words were full of security and hope, full of safety and family. There were promises in those words.

Promises I couldn't find it in myself to believe. So I looked him in the eye and said the worst possible thing I could.

"I don't want to be here…" my voice was thin and faint. But like any good weapon, it did all the damage it could with what it had. My thin, weak words found my brother like a stiletto to the heart.

Almost a full minute passed, neither one of us breathing.

"Of course… not…" his usually golden voice suddenly tarnished.

The hands holding me fell away, and the eyes watching me went blank. I knew that look; I'd been wearing it for a week. My brother was pulling back, disappearing into the blackness I'd thought was only in my head.

Ah. How could I have been so god damned wrong? Every time I'd pulled away from him… he'd though I was pulling _away from him_. Somehow, in his head, this was all his fault, a punishment for not saving the day. My brother was definitely haunted, but not by me. No, his ghosts only looked like me – like little brothers disappearing into a screaming nothingness, like trailers burning in lonely middle-of-nowhere nights, like a not-so-little brother turning cold as he willed himself dead. Because _he, _Niko the Perfect, had failed.

Oh, big brother, how did you get it so wrong?

It had been suddenly clear; I had to take it back. I had to take it _all _back; every word, every tremble, every flinch. My only excuse was that I was sluggish, with dimensional jet-lag still dragging at my mind. But whatever the reason, I just couldn't catch up, couldn't make myself fast enough to stop his next words.

"Of course you don't want to be here," he laughed harshly and sunk back onto his heels. The bed rocked with him, and I fought the slide. I knew what this despair felt like; I knew he had to get it out before it turned to acid in his throat. I knew that, with as much neutrality as I was capable of then, but fuck, I hated hearing it.

"The only thing here is hurt," he had choked, gagged on the words, the bile already burning. "All that's here are bruises. The bruises I... Why would you want to be here?"

He paused, still not really looking at me. "I'm sorry."

Then I was on him. It wasn't fast, no where near the blink of an eye. It was damn near pathetic actually. I stumbled, staggered, and almost lost against the give of the bed. But I still got him; he wasn't trying any more. Unfortunately for my diaphragm, though he wasn't trying anymore, he still had instinct. And where I had avoided violence for fear of a genetic disposition liking it a little too much, my brother had embraced the martial arts as just another way of being perfectly him. So as I knocked him to the bed, he unconsciously fought back.

As the dust settled, I was tangled around him, my newly long limbs catching us both by surprise. Our legs were twisted together, my arms snaked around his shoulders, and just as he'd held me to this world by superior will, I tried with inferior strength. My apparent victory was a bit of a shock. But I knew there was more to making this better than winning one wrestling match.

"No, Niko." I panted against his chest, my forehead trying to find a way through his sternum. "Not your fault…"

"I didn't save you."

My breath stopped when he said that. That wasn't right. Of course he'd saved me; he'd always saved me.

"I let you go, little brother. I let them take you. And now look at you; look at… the marks," the word cut his voice like glass, and he gasped around the pain. "I hurt you."

"No, Niko. Big brother. No." I looked up at him, seeing the reflection of myself too clearly in his eyes. I clawed at the scars on my neck, pulling the skin as taunt as I could, making him look. "This hurt me, Nik. My father hurt me. Grendels hurt me.

"Never you." My hands moved stiffly to his face, bracing his jaw so he couldn't look away. "These are just bruises, Niko. You were keeping me here. You had to hold tight so I couldn't disappear again. You're gravity, big brother; you kept me from slipping away."

It might have worked. As I looked into eyes as gray as mine, the distance there was not so many miles. Then something dark moved between us, and the distance grew again.

"I hurt you. I… took…" he stuttered, his voice catching and tripping. _Took advantage_, he was going to say. Ah, but there was another word there; I could see its darkness covering his eyes. I could hear its claws trying to strangle him.

So I took the word away from him.

"You didn't rape me." I said, blunt as a hammer blow and as solid as the nail.

My brother flinched like I'd stabbed him. Too bad.

"You didn't…" I started to say again, but his hand stopped me, held up between our faces.

"Please, Cal. Don't…" he'd begged. But I couldn't let it go.

"No. You didn't hurt me, Niko. You didn't force me. You didn't _do_ anything to me." Slowly I brought my face close to his, a breath of space between us.

I held there a moment, unsure how to proceed; I'd never been the leader when it came to my brother and me. Always I followed my older brother's guidance, knowing he'd steer me safe. But as I'd looked into his eyes, the four years between us slipped away and became the two years we'd have to learn to accept. I was still his brother, but I couldn't be his _little _brother anymore. Time to grow up, Caliban.

My lips met his like they had before, pressing my cold against his heat. Pressure built as he tried to hold still against me, but I wasn't backing down. He needed this, needed to feel that we weren't two separate, insignificant specks wandering lost in the big, vicious world. We were one. He needed to remember that... and so did I.

When he finally responded it was with a sob trapped behind his lips. His hands found me like a long lost shore, digging in to a hope thought gone. There would be new bruises, and I prayed he would understand them this time. I only spared a moment for the thought, though, before my hands found him with the same desperation.

It was both wilder and calmer than the first time, two days before. There was no longer the panic that I might will myself dead should something go wrong. It had been replaced with the horrifying knowledge that we had almost lost each other again. And worse yet, it was our own damn fault, both of us harboring guilt better left with the ashes of our mother. Though we might blame ourselves, I didn't blame him and he didn't blame me; it was a hard concept, but one we needed to accept.

Every touch solidified that knowledge, bringing us home into each other's skin. When his mouth found my throat, his lips wrapping hotly around my steady pulse, I mirrored the motion. Pressed so close I could smell his blood, thundering just under his skin. He smelled like sweat and road dust, like a week of anxiety and running; and underneath all of that, both strange and comforting, he smelled like me.

A loud tearing froze us both, eyes wide, with fight or flight ready to take over. Was this it? Was it all over, now, after we'd finally found home?

Monstrous hunters had made us their prey, and we were only eight days from our last encounter. Middle of nowhere hadn't saved us; days of driving might not either. We were both tense, listening for the next sound, for the noise that might mean our flawed respite was violently over.

It was an impossibly long second later that my brother began to quietly laugh. Still instinctively tense, ready to bolt, I'd figured he'd gone crazy; after all, he'd somehow found himself at fault for all this shit. Crazy was a distinct possibility.

Then I noticed that his eyes were no longer locked with mine, but looking over my shoulder. Muscle by muscle, I uncoiled enough look behind me, rolling slightly away from him. Silence took the room back as I moved, and there, gripped in his tense hand, was a large section of my shirt. Reality took a moment to set in, and when it did the adrenalin left me in a rush. My arms and legs stopped working, and I was grateful to be lying down.

I turned back to my brother, weak with relief, and froze again. The laughter hadn't quieted, but taken over. Though he was soundless, his whole body shook and tears ran down his cheeks. The bright flush filling his face with almost-pain let me know exactly what I was witnessing. It was that kind of laugh; the kind that came of adrenaline and electricity, the kind that could change into screaming if it stopped too soon. It was the kind of laugh that needed to run its course.

It might have been better had I joined him, but I wasn't there yet; I wondered if I'd ever be.

I found it easy to lean a little farther from him, both my arms snaking clumsily between us. He tried to ask what I was doing, but the silent laughter still owned him. My fingers were slightly numb as I wrapped them around the collar of his shirt, equally as thrift-store threadbare as my own. I watched as he tried to fight down the manic giggles, but knew there was release in the sound. So I gave him a smile I hopped was reassuring.

Then I pulled. The shirt separated like creased paper, barely fighting back. It was satisfying to _finally_ do something that turned out the way I planned. My brother's shocked stillness was equally as gratifying.

Before I could finished a new, cockier smile my brother's hands were pulling the remnants of my shirt over my head, and I joined him with awkward enthusiasm. My elbows caught and my fingers tangled, but we got ourselves stark with a minimum of injuries.

And we collided. Everywhere our skin touched left me needing more. He felt impossibly warm, burning away the icy darkness still hiding in the corners of me. I wrapped him around me like a blanket, but so much better than the itchy fabric kicked thoughtlessly to the floor.

The world around us slowly stilled, and there was only closer, only safety, only home.


	6. Pushing Past

Title: Healing

Author: ThirstySatyr

Rating: M, for language, mild sexuality, and squick content

Chapter 6/6: Pushing Past

Standard Disclaimer: Not mine. Rob Thurman's.

Note: The story of _Deathwish _has totally negated the driving force of this story. As a result, it's quite likely the second half of this story (_Healing_ was first, _Recovery_ was to be second) will not be uploaded. Please forgive the abrupt ending that occurs as a result.

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.

.

When we woke the next day there was awkwardness, but no danger. Mostly, it was that neither one of us knew what to say. It hadn't been sex, I knew that much even with my experience limited to my right hand. But we didn't know what to call it, otherwise. Comfort, assurance, homecoming? We had the ideas, but we didn't know how to speak them.

Despite not finding the words, we did smile. Neither one of us was running away. We knew the running wasn't over; hardly, with my father's kind still out there. But we didn't have to run from our family. Somewhere in the breakdowns and the tears, the screaming and the fighting, we'd found an undeniable truth; we had each other. Not dimensions, not monsters, not fear, and definitely not guilt could come between us.

When my eyes opened it had been like looking into a mirror with the cracks miraculously healed. The gray eyes that looked so much like mine no longer resembled bruises. The dark smudges beneath them would take time to repair, but the eyes themselves seemed whole again; I hoped my brother saw the same in mine.

"Good morning, little brother."

I felt my smile pull wider at that. _Good _morning? What a fucking optimist.

"Morning? Fine. Good?" I gave him a snort that might have passed for a laugh, "We'll see..." The words flowed easily, my newly deeper voice having wormed its way into familiar.

I rolled, letting my eyes do the same, and groaned my way onto my feet. Sore was definitely not a strong enough word. I could feel where old bruises met up with new ones, and where new ones dug deep to meet with injuries I couldn't remember.

My brother chuckled and got out of bed as if we hadn't spent the past week living out of a car and beating ourselves up.

"You just couldn't take the easy path, could you?" He laughed at me.

"We could've taken up needle point…" I snapped back, all the edge dulled by my smile. "Don't think it would've been quite the same, though…"

Time passed quickly after that, as we both acknowledged the darkness that still haunted us. Days were spent with endless stretches of road flying by, nameless towns remaining nameless. The nights were spent sleeping, me tucked firmly under the bed, one hand reaching up to link with one of his. We'd collided once and again out of necessity; the world was so unreal after my disappearance and strangely aged return, we needed the reassurance that only came with touch. With the recognition that the two of us were Family, the need for reassurance passed. Our lives became running, and quickly thereafter our lives became fighting.

But we would never again be alone.

Remembering all of this almost made me give up my fight against the morphine. Almost. I wanted out, wanted awake. The most recent trip to Tumulus was clawing at my grip on reality and I needed reassurance. And though the first trip had been so horrible I'd suppressed it like my life depended on the void, this time was much worse.

'What could possibly top kidnapping and two years of torture', one might ask.

Easy; they'd taken Niko.

My family, my anchor, my solid corner piece in the puzzle of existence; and the few remaining Auphe took him from me. The only thing I'd been able to count on had been my brother. Then he was touched by Tumulus, and even he was in question.

I'd gone after him, stepping into Tumulus with a forced willingness. And for seven days we hid, ran, and fought before I called the gate that brought us back home. Three hours passed in our absence, with Robin and Promise fighting their own, if shorter, battle. We stumbled through the gate half-dead, dehydrated, hungry, and bleeding, collapsing at the feet of our adopted family.

That must be where we were now, high above the city, recuperating in one guest room or another. The strange signals my nose had been giving me were starting to make sense; Promise's apartment always smelled of wild vanilla and twilight, and Robin's of fresh earth and trees. Despite the strangeness, there had been a familiarity to the scents reaching me through the morphine.

Realizing where I was made things better. It still wasn't perfect though. The memories of Tumulus and the Auphe still pulled at me, taunting my grip on reality. I needed reassurance, just like last time. With one final tug, I freed myself from the cocoon of warm sheets and found a familiar body holding me. Skin met skin with an electric zing, and the need for more rang through me with every heart beat.

I stopped fighting with my eyes and pressed my lips to his for a moment, before moving to the skin of his neck. There, the scent of heat and wild things still lingered in my confused sense of smell, but I reveled in the comfort that came with every touch. Strong hands pulled at my hips, bringing my body snug against his. The hardness pressed against my stomach was a message unspoken and clear.

Hands and lips traveled over endless bare skin, finding scars that hadn't been there six years ago. It was new and strange, relearning someone I'd always known. I searched for the harmony we'd had all those years ago, but something just wasn't clicking. Then his hand found the center of my need, and my thoughts stopped looking for anything, and just felt. Every shift of his fingers on me felt impossible, every pressure perfect. My head was spinning, flying away from the world. I held on to him with all I had, wrapping one of my legs around him, my hands digging at his back. My teeth sank into the flesh of his shoulder, seeking the musk and tang I knew so well.

Nimble fingers laced into my hair, gripping tight. The forceful pull made it past the morphine, and struck me as odd. I fought down the momentary reluctance, letting myself sink back into the warmth. My brother had never been to Tumulus; his force just proved he needed this as much as I did. Slowly I followed throat and jaw with my mouth, retracing the face that should have been as familiar as my own. My lips found his, and I pushed; I needed his lips, the press of strength that was everything he was to me.

It was the warm brush of tongue across my lips that broke the hold of the morphine completely.

Wrong. This was wrong.

I pulled back sharply and my eyes flew open. Even before my vision came into focus, I knew what I was going to find. Green, fox like eyes, and curly chestnut hair.

"Cal?" Robin's voice sounded more confused than anything else, only the barest hint of worry at the edge.

My thoughts didn't want to catch up with reality. There was only one clear thing ringing in my head; not Niko. Familiar and safe, but not Niko. Warm and protective, but not Niko. The smell had never been wrong, because it had never been Niko. Oh, gods...

The silence dragged out, and worry began to fill the puck's face. He retreated from me, his whole body edging backward until our skin no longer touched. My lack of reaction was beginning to make him anxious.

Finally I found my voice, and I used it to say the one thing I knew was true.

"No..."

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The sequel is posted as "Recovery": www(dot)fanfiction(dot)net/s/5368448/1/Recovery


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